


So if I May, What if I Say

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written on tumblr for jackrabbit-lovesong's prompt "Scott being there for Stiles on his mother’s death anniversary."</p>
            </blockquote>





	So if I May, What if I Say

So this is how it goes: they've known each other since the end of middle school, when Scott moved to Beacon Hills after living with his dad. And they tell each other almost everything --- anything --- things. A veritable plethora of things. 

But there’s some stuff they don’t talk about. Like the expression Scott gets on his face when Jackson calls him a waste of space. He can take 'loser', 'asswipe', 'buttmuncher'. But 'waste of space' brings him up short with a full bodied flinch. And Stiles wants to ask the question, but he doesn't want to cause Scott pain, so it remains unspoken between them. 

Also like this, this day. Stiles can never talk about today. 

Scott figured it out, of course. A couple years back. Brought up Stiles’ uncharacteristic silence, noticed and seemed concerned by his withdrawn nature. He's always given Stiles his space, has always kept his distance. It’s been… appreciated. In so far as Stiles has appreciated anything this month of the year. 

But amidst the death and destruction, Stiles doesn't want space. He wants to celebrate what he has. To revel in continued survival. To live, for her. 

He turns up at Scott’s place at 7 in the morning. Lets himself in with his key. He knows Ms. McCall’s on night shift and she’s stopped being concerned about his all access pass anyway. Hey, the keys have come in handy on more than one occasion. As have the wards that Stiles provided the spark for while Deaton did the spellwork. 

Scott’s the kind of asleep that would be cruel to wake up. His head peeks out from the covers, an unruly mess of dark waves. He doesn't usually sleep that well anymore, and it’s kind of a miracle he's not on high alert, so Stiles sneaks back down the stairs and gets started making breakfast. It takes so much skill to succeed without dropping a single pan, plate or spoon.

He’s made a towering stack of pancakes and has finally located the McCalls' wayward maple syrup by the time Scott appears in the kitchen doorway, eyes bleary, face creased. 

“Stiles?”

On any other day, Stiles thinks he could be tricked into thinking it’s general confusion, but even sleep-hazed and on the crest of a yawn, there’s familiar concern there. The type he’s heard after beatings and chases and impassioned rants. 

“Hey, buddy,” he replies, because what else can he say? 

_I had to be with you. Please._

_I forget how cute you look, sleep rumpled._

_I think I’m getting to the point where I can go on living as if this is any other day and that gets to me more than the pain of loss._

“It’s good to see you,” Scott says, as if they didn't spend all of Wednesday tracking down a book that Derek asked for. Like they weren't on Skype last night. 

He smiles, and it's not because it's expected. He isn't being courteous; that's never going to be his strength. Scott's easy affection makes him happy enough his mouth moves all of its own accord. Scott comes and stands next to him at the counter, warm hand sliding up and over his shoulder. The grip is slight pressure, reassurance, and nothing more's said. 

They devour the pancakes in about seven minutes flat. Which. Considering they took Stiles twenty-five to make, has to be some kind of eternal lesson about life. The journey may take a while, but the end is always fleeting, even if it doesn't seem it. And while an impression will last for a moment or more, with time that will fade too. 

He’s waxing philosophic about breakfast foods. He really needs to find something to either occupy or clear his mind. 

“You wanna make-out for a while?”

Scott’s eyebrow creeps up, face full of skepticism. “You think we should?”

“I’m kind of sick of shoulds and shouldn'ts. If you don’t want to, I got it. No more advances. Best buddies fo' life and all that.”

“No, I —. You’re serious right now, aren't you? You’re not just messing with my head?”

Stiles gazes back up, and something must show in his expression – a fracture, or a splinter – some kind of wound, because Scott steps forward with a pained murmur, fingers wrapping against the back of Stiles’ neck. 

Scott kisses him with the same uncomplicated care he shows in everything else. He doesn't push or demand. His hands are tethers, pulling Stiles close, smoothing him down. His lips are soft and measured. He doesn't complain when Stiles starts walking them carefully into the living room, doesn't protest when the kiss deepens, when he has a lap full of another body, a twist and grind. He grins when they stop to catch their breath, nuzzling in for more. 

Stiles can't stop himself gliding his fingers over Scott's jaw, tilting his head. Can’t seem to stop licking in and finding all the secrets he's been curious about. He explores and revels and lives.

So this is how it goes: there’s some stuff they don't talk about. They don't need to.

**Author's Note:**

> I am [lozenger8](http://lozenger8.tumblr.com) on tumblr. The title of this comes from The Cat Empire's "Steal the Light", which is an awesome song on an equally amazing album.


End file.
